How Long You Been Bangin?
by TEi Has Pants
Summary: Pierce is feeling chatty and attempts to bond with Gat over a game of pool, but Gat really doesn't care.


_**How Long You Been Bangin'?**_

**Author's Note:** This is a crossover fanfiction between the video games Saint's Row 2 and Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas. Although Alexis is the customized character I have made for Saint's Row 2 and is copyright TEi, I do not own any of the characters or places associated with these games. This is a story made explicitly for entertainment purposes, nothing more and nothing less.

- - -

"Hey, Gat - how long you been bangin'?"

Johnny Gat glanced up from the pool table, wrinkling his brow; of all the times for Pierce to start up a friendly chat, did it have to be during his turn? It wasn't like he didn't need to concentrate or anything. Especially since the punk kid (okay, so maybe he was ten years younger than Gat, but he still _acted_ like a kid) was _winning_ this Goddamn game, and he wasn't even acting _smug_ about it. He never did, he was too humble, and if it wasn't for the fact that Gat had seen him bang in the first place, then he would'a sworn Pierce just wasn't cut from the right cloth. He listened to classical music, for fuck's sake; if what Alexis said was true, Pierce had called it 'proper drive-by music,' which couldn't be further from the truth. If he ain't cut from the _right_ cloth, then he was definitely cut from the _retard_ cloth. You know, the same cloth that the hunch-backed, drooling, smelly kid from school was cut from.

The Saint's headquarters, located beneath an old church in the Red Light District, loomed graceful and ornate around them; a marble staircase framed and divided by flowing, aquatic rails led from the bottom floor up to a landing with a purple angel statue, re-carved to wear short-shorts, a tank-top and a pair of pistols in its crossed hands. Violet lighting cast its glow across the statue, the stairs, the bar up against one wall, the stripper poles, the fancy couches...yeah, it was a helluva place. And this was a great spot for a pool table.

"What, does it matter to you or somethin'?" Gat said, crooking his head to the side. He turned his attention back to the pool table, considering his next move. The prospects didn't look good; the eight ball blocked off all the good shots, and if he wanted to do _anything_ this round, he'd have to use it to bank off one of his solids. Number three lurked tantalizingly close to the corner pocket, but ricocheting into that sorta situation begged for a scratch... "Last I checked it wasn't none'a your business."

From the corner of his vision, Gat saw Pierce give an uncomfortable shrug, his shoulders rolling, broad, like a football player's. "I dunno, man, I just thought...you know, we only know each other on a professional basis. We run together, you're the Saints' second in command and I'm one of the lieutenants, but how much do we actually _bond_, you know?"

Gat sighed and shook his head, using his free hand to push his shades up the bridge of his nose. There was nothing else he could do; good old number three was the best bet he had, because he'd rather risk scratching than sinking one of Pierce's balls by accident. He leaned forward over the table and lined up the pool cue, the green felt scratching the side of his palm. "Pierce, we don't bond because we don't _have_ to bond. It don't matter if you and I are the only ones with the Y chromosomes in some position of power here. To be honest, I only _care_ for you professionally. I don't think I'd give much of a shit for you much outside that, so don't push it, okay?"

"Man, how come you gotta be a cold-assed bastard like that?" Pierce whined - _just_ as Gat struck the cue ball, missed the Goddamn angle - and yeah, it went _right_ past three, sunk into the corner pocket. "I mean, it's not like I'm tryin' to drive ice picks under your nails or nothin'! No need to use _ad homonyms_ - "

"'Odd _what_?'" Gat snapped, pushing himself away from the table and glaring at Pierce. "Don't you get it? You do good by the gang and that's all that matters to me."

He drew a deep breath - okay, okay, calm down Gat, you're letting this get to you. You don't want to discourage Pierce _too_ much. He's got a fragile ego. "Look...just play the game, okay?"

Pierce sighed and picked up the chalk, rubbing it on the tip of the cue. He walked around, fished the cue ball out if the side pocket and set it back on the marked point in the green fabric. He lined up his shot - Gat watched him carefully, his eyes in particular, flickering upward - a tell of his, if Pierce planned on talking to somebody who'd shunned him. Nothing...he just concentrated on the board, pursing his lips as he calculated what he'd do next. As he drew his cue back, ready to poke the cue ball, Gat got a brilliant idea.

"Fifteen years."

It caught Pierce off-guard; he fumbled his shot, too, driving the tip of the cue into the table's surface, making the cue ball skip away from number fifteen, clattering against number three and sinking both it and the cue ball. Gat allowed himself a smug grin and crossed his arms over his chest; Pierce stood up and fixed Gat with a look that could _only_ be associated with the cutest puppy in the world getting kicked, and there was something really gratifying about that. "What the _hell_, man?"

"It serves ya right." Gat chuckled and shook his head again. He unfurled his arm and reached out for a half-finished beer sitting on the table's edge; he brought it up to his mouth - cold and smooth and fresh on his lower lip - and tilted it back, taking a quick chug of the stuff before letting it fall. "Tough shit."

"I swear, the good Lord put you on this planet just to be a pain in the ass."

It was Gat's turn to shrug, and he put a li'l, well-deserved smarm into his smirk. "Don't think you're far from the truth. Hell, I'd be surprised if it weren't. But to answer your question - since you're so hell-bent on knowing - I've been bangin' for fifteen years."

Pierce hiked an eyebrow, his mouth curling into a frown. "And why did you tell me this now?"

"Mostly to get back at you for making me scratch, so don't get the wrong idea." Gat tilted his head back and took another swig, the beer tickling his tongue, his throat - stuff didn't taste all that great, the Saints had enough money to afford better, but they must'a sent a greenhorn to pick up the booze. At least it wasn't so bad to be pisswater. "I got my start in San Andreas, on the west coast. I was a part of the Mountain Cloud Boys triad. I got born into it, you know, parents both involved in their number-crunching, but they didn't want me to take part of it till I was seventeen. Now I wanted in, _bad_, but I cared for my parents enough to respect they wishes. Seventeenth birthday comes around and my present is bein' brought on a job. Pulling a heist on an Italian casino in Las Venturas to show them that the triads meant business."

Pierce's eyes went wide and he snapped his fingers. "Oooh, I _remember_ that, dawg! That was all over the news! Caligula's Casino, right?"

Gat nodded and set the beer down, turning his attention back to the pool table. "Heh heh, that's the place. It got a lot more intense after that...see, the Mountain Cloud Boys were allied with a group of bangers from Los Santos, the Grove Street Families. After Los Santos had been taken over by some crooked cops and the Families' rival gangs, the Boys helped the Families' lead man, Carl Johnson, take back a mansion that belonged to this rapper guy so they could use it as a base of operations. Ever hear of Madd Dogg?"

Pierce's jaw dropped. "You met _Madd Dogg_? He's, like, the only rapper on the planet who got his shit together."

"I beg to differ, but yeah, I met him." Gat found a good angle - number five was a prime candidate, clear from Pierce's stripes or the eight ball. He leaned over the table and readied the cue stick; he jabbed forward, and with a sharp _clack!_, the cue ball ricocheted off number five, sinking it in the corner pocket. "We wasn't real chummy, though. I was just a face that helped him get his crib back."

"And that was around the Los Santos Riot, wasn't it?" Pierce moved around the table's edge, scrutinizing the layout for his next shot. "After those cops got off all those criminal charges."

"Tenpenny and Polaski, yeah. Was a hell of a thing." Gat shook his head and picked up the beer again, the glass chilled beneath his fingers. "But by then, the Boys had they own business to take care of; we did what we could for the Grove Street Families, but they was pretty much left to they own shit."

"How long did you stay there?" Pierce asked, finding his shot and bending over the table with his cue at the ready. "I mean, San Andreas ain't exactly a walk down the street from Stilwater."

"Five years, maybe. Six at most." Gat shrugged again. "I loved bangin' - really got into it, just _destroyin'_ shit. It was...too violent for the Mountain Cloud Boys. I wanted the gang to get into drug deals...bring in cash from the streets, on top of what we got from our own casino in Las Venturas. Make our presence universal. You know how it is; gimme a motherfucker to shoot, and I'll make _sure_ his ass is in the ground, as well as anyone important to him."

"Like with the Ronin."

"Fuckers deserved it after what they did to Aisha." Gat felt his smirk turn into a twisted grin. "Sometimes I like to visit Mourning Wood and stand on the place we buried Shogo - like to pretend he's still screamin' in there. An' then I piss on the headstone."

"Sick bastard."

Gat chuckled. "Can't deny the truth. But yeah - the Boys' leader, Wu Zi Mu, didn't care much for my _modus operandi_."

"You know what that means, but you _don't_ know what an _ad homonym _is?" Pierce furrowed his brow and struck the cue ball; it bounced off the table's corner and met the eleven ball halfway to a side-pocket, sinking it. Shit, guy only had one more before he could go after number eight. "That's fucked _up_."

"Hey, give it a rest, aight?" Gat set the beer down again and turned back towards the table. "So, Woozie gave me an ultimatum. Either get my ass together, or get out - he was a lot nicer about it, though. He was a good guy."

"So, you left."

"I left. Didn't have any ill will towards Woozie or the Boys, 'cause it wasn't like they'd threatened to kill me or nothin', and I'd grown up with the bastards." Gat shrugged and eyeballed what was left of the table - he had, shit, _five_ left, and Pierce with that one...but - ooh. An opening, a perfect opportunity - good or not, Pierce wouldn't even know it had been set up till it was too late. "Traveled across the country, shacked up with a couple gangs here and there...moved on when they either got wiped out by the cops or other gangs, or when they were too much of a collective pussy for what I was lookin' for. Then I holed up in Stilwater, met Julius and Dex...and here I am." With that, Gat struck the cue ball again - and it whipped around the table, rebounding off two sides, before coming to a rest in the center. He dropped a curse - made it sound sincere.

"Huh. Sounds like a real adventure." Pierce moved around the table again, and - _yes_ - he lined up the shot just as Gat figured he would and took it. The cue ball clattered into number fifteen, which then glanced off the side of number eight - killing fifteen's momentum and sending eight spiraling into a pocket. Pierce moaned and threw his stick to the ground. "What the _fuck_, man? I call bullshit!"

"Heh hah hah." Gat picked up his beer again and nodded at Pierce. "That's what you get for fucking up my shot. Now get the hell out, you got your answers and you got your game. I wanna see if Shaundi is any better."

"Man, you _are_ a pain in the ass." Pierce huffed, scowled, and turned towards the Saints' bar, body rigid. Couldn't be clearer that he'd got his back up, and that just made the win so much sweeter.

Besides - Gat managed to avoid bonding with the man. So far as he was concerned, that was a twice-over win in his book.


End file.
